The Snowball Effect
by Dayja
Summary: Cabin Pressure fic. In which Martin's usual bad luck as seen in Ottery St Mary leads to one of the best things to ever happen to him.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Snowball Effect  
><strong>Author<strong>: Dayja  
><strong>Summary<strong>: In which Martin's usual bad luck as seen in Ottery St Mary leads to one of the best things to ever happen to him.  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Work-in-Progress, **spoilers **for episode 3.4: Ottery St Mary (and a bit 3.1 and probably all the series in general)  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Hurt/comfort, angst, fluff

**Disclaimer**: I do not own/am not associated with/ make no money from Cabin Pressure.

**Chapter 1**

Navigating a ladder with a sprained ankle, even a ladder with pretentions towards being particularly vertical stairs, was probably among the list of activities doctors would prohibit. Unfortunately, the rout to Martin's room led not only up just such a ladder but also up two proper staircases to reach it.

Hobbling up two flights of stairs and then attempting the ladder while doped up on pain meds, pain meds he had swallowed down with the aid of cheap beer offered by an agricultural student, was probably suicidal. Luckily, the same student who had lacked common sense when it came to medicine did have enough sense to steer Martin away from his intended trek up the stairs and into the much closer and far less hazardous to reach common room.

"There you go, Captain," the youth said with all the eager earnestness of a boy scout fulfilling his duty in helping the elderly across the road, "Will you be alright here? Do you need a blanket?"

"I think I'd have been fine in my room," Martin answered with a scowl that didn't dim the other's eagerness in the slightest.

"Of course you would," he answered in a soothing, indulgent tone, "I'll just be getting that blanket."

"I'm in my thirties, not my eighties!" Martin called after him before letting his head drop backwards. His ankle still twinged dully but for the most part he felt disconnected, like he was floating. It had been a long day, and the prospect of actually facing all those stairs now that he was seated made him want to sink down into the cushions and never move again. A long, painful, and in the end useless day. His one day to get his finances into order so that he could pay rent and hopefully stock up on food, and it had begun in hospital. Martin had been at his wits end when he had called Arthur; he just knew that he was going to have to cancel his biggest job in weeks, and then he was going to lose clients, and he'd miss out on the rent, and end up living in his van where he'd starve to death and be found weeks later when someone finally thought to wonder why he'd stopped showing up to work.

Of course it didn't quite work out that way. It turned out that he had better friends than he had realized.

Even so, nothing had gone as it was supposed to. He didn't even want to think about how Carolyn was going to react once she learned they had, more or less, stolen her plane to move a piano for a job that paid far less than the costs involved in flying it. If Martin had a paycheck, he suspected she'd be taking it out of that. As it was, he had a vague fear that she would decide he wasn't worth it, after all, and simply let him go. Surely not, though. The cost of flying the piano wouldn't equal the cost of both finding a new pilot and having to pay them.

The students were tiptoeing around him, the girls cooing softly as though he were a wounded puppy they had taken in. He could feel them staring behind his closed eyelids. Darren, the student who had helped him to the sofa, had come back to drape a blanket and then backed off quietly.

"Oh, the Captain is hurt," he heard one of the girls whisper, "Should we get him some ice?"

"Let him sleep," someone else whispered back. The whispers and tiptoeing around him was beginning to get annoying, honestly. Martin began to reconsider trying to get up the stairs after all. At the same time, the attempted quiet was rather soothing and before he could decide to get up he found himself truly drifting off. So it was all a bit jarring when a familiar voice snapped out his name at raised volume.

"Martin!" His eyes snapped open to see his boss standing over him. Oh god, he thought, she knows about the stolen flight.

"C-carolyn, hi, hi, what are, Carolyn, hi?"

"Martin," she barked out, "I hear you took your day off to get yourself banged up." She was studying him critically and with a hint of concern in her eyes that Martin knew would never reach her voice. It was a look he had seen often enough directed towards Arthur and Martin felt strange to find himself on the receiving end. Then he suddenly realized what she wasn't shouting at him about, and the sudden relief made him almost giddy.

"Oh…oh! That, right, I suppose Arthur told you about…that. Just that. Right. That." She was looking suspicious now, and Martin forced himself to stop talking. Her eyes narrowed.

"I can't afford to have my pilots get themselves beat up in their down time," she insisted sternly, and Martin found himself nodding his head in agreement without quite knowing what he was agreeing to. The world still felt a bit unreal and disconnected.

"You mean he really is a pilot," a voice half whispered in surprise, "We all thought he was just…you know…" The voice shut up when Carolyn turned her gaze upon it.

"I think _Captain_ Crieff could use some ice, don't you?" she suggested sharply. There was a sound of feet scrambling away and then they were alone. Martin blinked. Carolyn was looking at him again, her lips pressed firmly together. "Martin, as I said, I can't afford for my pilots to be hurting themselves in their off time."

"I…sorry?" Martin suggested, getting that she was accusing him of something. She was still frowning, peering into his eyes.

"Martin…how man pills have you taken today?"

"I…two…four? Why?"

"Because normally by this point you would be explaining why it wasn't your fault and how I can't penalize you for having an accident."

"Penalize me?" he asked frowning and starting to feel panicked again, "Why? What are you going to do? You can't fire me for a sprained ankle, I can still fly, really, it's just my ankle, we did it this afternoon and there was…no…problem…" he trailed off again.

"I am going to ignore that for the moment because I know you are stupid when you are drugged, and you obviously did not mean to say that you flew Gerti this afternoon because we had no flights scheduled for this afternoon, and if you _had_ flown this afternoon I would most certainly have to take it out of your pay which, quite frankly, I don't think you can afford."

He blinked at her again.

"You don't pay me," was all he could come up with to say.

"Of course I pay you. That is what I've been saying. I can't afford to have my pilots killing themselves in their downtime. So you will stop lugging about ridiculously heavy items and hurting yourself, and I will pay you half of Douglas's salary."

Martin blinked again. Surly that was just the drugs messing with him because there was no way Carolyn had just said what he thought she had said.

"But…you can't afford…I"

"Martin, I know you are stupid today, but do try to understand. When I say half of Douglas's salary, I mean half of _his_ salary. So. Are you going to stop this ridiculously hazardous side venture of yours or should I tell Douglas he isn't getting a pay cut after all?"

"But, I don't want Douglas's money…"

"Which is why I'm not giving you his, I'm giving you yours."

"But…you said…"

"That I'm paying you to be a pilot." And Martin blinked again, this time because his eyes had gone strangely wet. "Yes," Carolyn said, reaching out to smooth down his hair, "Well. I will see you tomorrow. I'll give you your first paycheck then." She backed away but hesitated in the doorway. "Do get better, Martin," she ordered, "We need our captain to be in top form. Having a lame captain does not inspire confidence among customers." And then she was gone.

**Author's Note**: As I'm only newly come to the Cabin Pressure fandom and not completely comfortable with the voices (and definitely not comfortable with aeroplanes and any lingo pertaining to them...seriously, when I first started listening I had a vague idea that they spent an awful lot of time in India) feel free to critique or britpick. The next chapter should be up fairly quickly but I have no idea how fast I'll be after that since I haven't actually planned that far ahead. Though I don't intend this to be an epic long piece, so hopefully I'll finish it before I start to stall.


	2. Chapter 2 part 1

**Chapter 2 (part 1)**

Martin found himself completely alone and half convinced Carolyn's entire visit had been a dream. Surly something so good couldn't happen to him, not on a day when everything was going wrong. He was blinking his eyes again when he heard the door open and a cautious head poked into the room. Finding the coast clear, a student came in with a towel full of ice.

"Hey…er…Captain? I have your ice…do you need anything?"

Just what he didn't want right at that moment, to be fussed over by a bunch of overawed youths.

"Thank you, Darren," Martin said, "But I think I really will be up to my room, now."

"Oh," he said, looking doubtful, "Are you sure? Only, I have this thing I need to go to and…"

"I think I can manage on my own, thank you," Martin answered quickly, slowly pulling himself up onto his good foot and wobbling on his crutches. He felt less dazed now than he had before anyway, or perhaps that was adrenalin from Carolyn's visit. For whatever reason, he felt more up to escaping to his own space before any more students came to gawk at him.

"If you're sure," Darren said, still sounding doubtful, but he handed over the bag of ice anyway and went on his way. No one else was around to watch his progress so Martin took it slow. Even so, by the time he had climbed the second set of stairs, he was starting to sweat and breathe heavily, the dull ache in his ankle twinging with something sharper every time he accidentally jarred it on a step. The third time that happened he had to pause for nearly five minutes, trying to remember to breathe while sounds that were most certainly not whimpers attempted to escape through his clinched teeth. But in the end he managed both stair cases. He sat down on the top step, knowing there was only the ladder to go but not quite able to summon the energy to make that final attempt. Besides, he was still trying to work out the logic of bringing up the crutches.

There were sounds below him now, though; he could even hear footsteps on the first set of stairs. If he waited much longer, he would have to deal with his housemates and their concern and interest and help when all he wanted was to curl up in his own space, down more pain pills, and settle into oblivion for the night.

Fighting the exhaustion, the pain, and the vague feeling that if he only relaxed he could manage to float up to his room, he forced himself up onto his good foot. This was a mistake. A sudden sense of vertigo had him clutching tightly to the railing to stop his compromised balance from sending him tumbling down the stairs.

"It would be my luck," he mumbled to himself, "I'm finally a paid proper pilot and I kill myself going up stairs." But the world settled and he was able to hop with the aid of his crutches over to his spiral ladder staircase that led into the attic. Here he paused again to look up it. In theory it was designed to be another staircase as rules and regulations called for. In reality, the steps consisted of rungs spiraling around a pole in the manner of a staircase but without the normal thickness or a railing to hold onto, and the only way to really use it without risking a fall was to climb it like a ladder. Martin had no idea how such a contraption had passed the house's inspection, but it did help to lower the rent he had to pay. And it was fine, usually. Now…there was no way the crutches were helping him here. He was barely certain he could manage with just himself.

And Martin knew he shouldn't really even try. But he was _tired_; tired of being wounded, of pain and being useless and of this long, long day. The world still felt a bit unreal and dull around the edges, like he was in a dream and couldn't _really _fall or be hurt, despite the twinge in his ankle telling him otherwise. All he wanted was to get to his room before anyone else came. At this rate everyone was going to find him sleeping in the hallway, pathetic and crippled, and they will coo over him like he was the house puppy or a civic duty and his room is just right there, a few insurmountable steps away. Below him, the staircase was creaking, warning that the emptiness of the hallway was about to be intruded upon. He decided to climb.

The crutches were useless burdens, of course, but his space was small enough that he could hop around with the wall for support anyway. So he leaned the crutches against the wall to be retrieved later, grabbed onto a rung and hopped and pulled and somehow managed to make it onto the first rung. He could do this. He started to climb.

It was hard, much harder than the stairs. He tended to bang his knees and he nearly slipped half a dozen times. His arm muscles that were used to lifting and hauling were not used to being used in quite this manner and were beginning to protest the strain even after he started using the knee of his bad leg for support. And it was hard to remember not to use his bandaged foot. By the time he somehow managed to haul himself almost to the top, his ankle was practically screaming its protest in spite of the pain pills he had taken earlier that still made his head swim.

And then the door was in reach and he was fumbling with his key and the lock with both hands, when his foot slipped. He tried to catch himself instinctively by standing on his other foot.

For a moment the world went away in one agonizing roar of PAIN. By the time he realized he was leaning backwards, trying to move off his hurt ankle, it was already too late. His fingers reached for something to grab, sliding desperately over a rung just the slightest bit too far away, and then there was nothing beneath him, nothing to hold, and all he could think was, 'this is going to hurt'.

Martin fell.


	3. Chapter 2 part 2

**Chapter 2 Part 2**

The pain didn't come. Neither did the floor. There was a quiet 'oof', and the fall stopped just as abruptly as it started, leaving Martin draped over something solid and warm and smelling vaguely familiar. The world continued to spin for a moment, threatening to tip him over into unconsciousness. For a full minute, he lay still and just breathed, as the pain slowly receded and the world settled. All the while, he had enough sense to tell that he wasn't sprawled on the ground or dead, but not enough to quite realize what had happened. He in fact had a rather vague notion that he had somehow fallen into the branches of a tree. At least until the tree spoke.

"Martin," a voice said almost in his ear, heavy and strained and familiar. It was not the voice of a tree. Martin opened his eyes, hoping against hope that what his senses told him was wrong. That he was not lying draped in the arms of his first officer like some swooning damsel being carried over the threshold.

His senses were not wrong. It was hard to get a good look at Douglas's face from this vantage; it tended to morph into a distorted visage with three eyes and two noses, but he could well imagine the amused expression he would be sporting. So it was a bit startling that when Douglas did continue to speak, his tone was biting rather than gleeful.

"What exactly were you trying to do?" He still sounded strained, and it belatedly occurred to Martin that he was _still _being held. Being caught was bad enough; surely Douglas could put him down now? He had to be heavy; Martin could feel Douglas trembling from the strain, but he still made no move to release him.

"I was going to my room," Martin answered, with all the dignity one can manage while being draped in someone else's arms.

"And what," Douglas demanded, "made you think it was a good idea to climb a ladder with a broken leg?"

"Sprained ankle," Martin corrected defensively, "And I almost made it."

"No Martin," Douglas answered, "You almost broke your neck." The tone was familiar and sarcastic and would normally cause him to bristle indignantly, but at that particular moment with his head still feeling not quite connected to his body, he found himself unable to muster up much more than a confused frown.

"I'm good at climbing. I climbed all the time when I was small. Trees like me."

"I'm sure they do," Douglas answered, sounding bemused this time. Then he was setting him down at last, careful of his ankle. The ground was less comfortable than Douglas but also less embarassing even if Douglas did tower over him now. "Wait here."

"Why?" Martin asked, "Where are you going?" But Douglas didn't bother to answer as he was already halfway up the ladder. Before Martin could work up a proper protest, Douglas had managed to use Martin's keys and let himself inside. Martin protested anyway, loudly, from his position on the floor.

"Douglas! That's breaking and entering!"

"I believe you'll find it's just 'entering'. I did use your keys." Douglas's voice floated down from Martin's room.

"Keys you stole!" Martin pointed out.

"That I rescued from the floor!" Douglas called back. Martin listened hard, frowning, and trying to figure out what Douglas was doing. He could hear his movements across the room in the creeking of the floor boards above his head. From the sound of it, he was walking all around the room, opening drawers and pulling things out. Beyond that, he had no idea what Douglas was up to, or why he felt the need to invade Martin's living space. Unless it was for more ammunition to embarrass him with.

"Douglas!"

"One moment, Martin." From the sound of it, Douglas was rummaging in the bathroom now. It was maddening trying to listen to what he was up to, and it suddenly occurred to Martin that he didn't have to stay sitting on the floor just because Douglas told him to. Not that he intended to try to climb the ladder again, but he could at least look up it and try to see what was happening. So he gave up on shouting at Douglas and turned his efforts towards standing up.

By the time he managed to push himself up the wall into an almost vertical position, however, Douglas was already coming down. He had Martin's overnight bag with him, slung over his back. Martin stared, still not comprehending what Douglas was up to, unless he actually intended to steal some of Martin's belongings as some bizarre payment for making him move a piano and then suddenly getting half his paycheck. Then he grabbed Martin's crutches as well.

"Alright, Captain, time to go. I think you had better be the one to carry these." And before Martin could begin to comprehend his intentions, Douglas's arms were suddenly around him again, scooping him off his feet. Martin almost dropped the crutches with a surprised yelp at finding himself once again in Douglas's arms.

"You really are heavier than you look," Douglas grunted, and he started carefully down the stairs.

"Douglas! Wait, Douglas, what are you, why, what, where are we going?"

"I believe you forgot who and when."

"No, I, Douglas?" At the slightly vulnerable tone that had crept into that last questioning statement, Douglas finally paused and relented.

"You can't stay here, Martin; you can't even get into your room without almost killing yourself."

"I...alright, maybe...but I don't have anywhere else to go and I can't afford...I mean, not yet...well...perhaps if you helped me up?"

"And break both our necks? You really are ridiculous when you're stoned. We're going to my house."

"I'm not stoned!" Martin frowned, and then belatedly realized exactly what Douglas had just said. "Your house? Douglas, I can't impose like that; I'll be in the way."

"Nonsense." And somehow that single statement seemed to firmly put to rest all the arguments Martin had lined up in his head about why this was a bad idea and wouldn't work. At any rate, there wasn't much he could do to protest when he was being carried like a baby in Douglas's arms. They were already down the stairs that had taken Martin so long to climb and soon they'd be at Douglas's car. He knew he should have more objections but somehow he couldn't think of what they were or how to say them. In the end, he only protested the method.

"I can walk."

"Of course you can." Considering they had just arrived at the car, there was no point for Douglas to argue.

"This is kidnapping," Martin tried next while Douglas situated the crutches and overnight bag before helping Martin into his seat.

"I like to think of it as surprise relocation."

At the very least, Martin agreed that this was a surprise.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Moving into Douglas's small guest room was surprisingly easy. This was partly because Martin was half asleep; far too asleep to feel awkward, and partly because Douglas was strangely unobtrusive. He helped him to the guest room with a minimum of fuss, letting Martin hobble on his own this time but staying close in case he stumbled, which he did, three times, despite the lack of any real obstacles through Douglas's hallway. There he deposited Martin on a small but freshly made up bed, his crutches leaned against a nearby wall and his bag on the dresser. And once all had been deposited, a quick explanation given for the location of the toilet, and shoes had been deftly removed before it could occur to the wearer to protest, he left him to fend for himself.

With no students or Douglas to gawk at him and a lovely bed all ready for him, Martin let himself sink into oblivion. Going to sleep was easy.

Waking up, on the other hand, in Douglas's small guest room was predictably disconcerting. Being awoken by a pain in his ankle in a strange bed in a strange house and then having to remember the entirety of the day before was…strange. Surreal. Yesterday had been an awful day; he was certain of that. His ankle was testament to that. But then there were all those little bits of yesterday that didn't fit within Martin's world view as the sort of thing that could happen to Martin. Surely he only dreamt that Carolyn had come by and said that, far from punishing him for their unscheduled and doubtless expensive flight, she was going to pay him. And that she had achieved this economic feat by taking it out of Douglas's pay, something that should have infuriated the man, when nothing in his actions since had indicated fury. Unless…aha! Douglas _was_ furious and had kidnapped him here to…save him from breaking his neck and give him a good night's sleep? No, surely he was biding his time, waiting for his revenge. Which definitely did not explain why Martin smelled bacon.

Before he could completely wrap his head around the situation, there was a knock on his door and then Douglas's surprisingly awake and cheerful voice, despite the fact that it was definitely in the AM.

"Martin? Are you awake yet? Breakfast is ready. Can you eat with your meds?"

The sudden knock made Martin jump and then he had to hold back a yelp when that jarred his ankle so he barely heard anything Douglas had said, just an impression of a familiar deep voice with a hint of concerned interest. Just enough got through to remind him he had relief from the agony throbbing furiously from the injured joint and he scrambled through pockets looking for it.

"Martin?"

"I'm fine, Douglas," he managed to answer, just has his fingers finely found the bottle and he pulled it free. He stared bleary eyed at the label for a few minutes until his brain woke up enough to make sense of the small print. Food was not only allowed, it was recommended.

There was a glass of water helpfully placed by his bed that Martin was almost certain hadn't been there when he went to bed. On the other hand, a whole kitchen's worth of glasses could have been left the night before for him and in the state he had been in he never would have noticed. Whenever it arrived, Martin gratefully used it to gulp down his pills before he even contemplated getting out of bed.

"Martin?" Douglas was knocking at the door again, "I hate to disturb my esteemed captain but Carolyn does seem to prefer her pilots to arrive at some point in the morning rather than the afternoon."

"What? Oh god, what time is it?" Martin's hands flew fretfully over his rumpled clothes before realizing that, despite not having changed out of his outfit from the day before, what he had been wearing the day before had been his moving clothes rather than the respectable outfit a captain might be expected to wear. He needed to change. He needed to eat. He needed to shave, to wash. He needed to sit down because the world was suddenly spinning and he had dropped one of his crutches and there was a moment when he was absolutely certain he was going to miss the bed and fall and it was going to hurt.

And then warm arms had him and he was engulfed in a warm familiar scent that somehow screamed safety to all his senses despite his common sense telling him that Douglas was anything but safe. He relaxed in spite of himself, allowing Douglas to ease him back onto the bed, his voice a soothing rumble against his chest.

"Easy, Martin, I didn't mean we had to be off this moment."

"We can't both be late, Douglas, not today, not when it's going to be official!" It was only after he said it that Martin remembered that his 'official' pay would be coming out of Douglas's paycheck. "I mean, well, I suppose you'll have less reason to turn up on time, I mean, I'm not endorsing it, I mean, well it wasn't my idea, you know, I didn't tell Carolyn to…Okay, I did suggest to her, but not from your…and then she just appeared and told me and left and…oh God…I think I told her about our flight yesterday. She's going to kill us. She's only paying me so she can make us pay for our funerals and then she's going to kill us and I'll never fly again."

The rumble behind his back warmed his chest with Douglas's soft laugh, and belatedly Martin realized that he had somehow wound up practically in the other man's lap, still firmly clasped against his chest. He pulled away immediately, making it awkwardly back to his feet. Douglas let him go.

"I can't be late," he repeated again, firmly avoiding looking back at the other man, his hands awkwardly fumbling with one crutch. The other had fallen on the floor but before he could make a fool of himself trying to retrieve it, Douglas had grabbed it up and handed it to him.

"Martin," he said, his voice at once familiarly condescending and strangely gentle, "It's only 6:30. We don't have to be at the airfield for another hour."

"Oh. Right. And you're already awake?"

"I'll have you know, I am a naturally early riser." Then, at Martin's scoff of utter disbelief, he continued with "It's facing the hideous prospect of wasting a perfectly good morning with honest labor that I despise. Breakfast?"

"You didn't have to cook me anything," Martin answered awkwardly, suddenly reminded that he was an unexpected house guest in the other man's home.

"Nonsense. I made myself breakfast and I always make too much. Not quite used to bachelorhood, I suppose. It will be nice to have someone to eat the surplus."

"Oh…" Martin wasn't quite sure what he was meant to say to that. Douglas seemed strangely open this morning. Was he sad about his wife? Or his daughter…Martin knew she had been visiting the weekend before. He didn't look sad, but then, this was Douglas. The closest he ever came to showing his true feelings was by acting especially cross when he was hurt. He wasn't acting cross either. It was confusing. In the end, Martin settled on the neutral, "Thank you," and followed him to the kitchen.

Breakfast turned out to include bacon, eggs and tomatoes on toast with an offering of orange juice, tea and coffee. It smelled mouthwatering and was certainly far heartier than Martin's usual breakfast, which usually consisted of toast or a bagel if it was anything at all. Whatever qualms he had about eating the other man's food disintegrated with the growling of his stomach.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried about feeling like an intruder anyway. Breakfast with Douglas was comfortable and strangely familiar. Martin wondered at it, until he realized that this really wasn't the first time he had spent his morning with Douglas, just the first time it happened to take place in Douglas's house. Or perhaps his medication was to blame. The pain had finally begun to recede to a dull throb but his head also had gone a bit muzzy.

Then, suddenly, it was somehow an entire half hour later and he was quite certain they were going to be late and he wasn't wearing his proper uniform, and his uniform wasn't pressed or neat because it had spent the night in his overnight bag and, oh god, what if Douglas hadn't even packed it?

It turned out he had. And that it was horribly wrinkled. Martin was still staring at it miserably when Douglas appeared in the doorway, impeccably dressed as always.

"Oh dear," he said, "And no time to iron or we will be late."

"This is all your fault!" Martin couldn't help but wail in distress; he had never gone to work so rumpled in his life, not even when it meant washing his clothes every other day because he didn't have enough nice shirts to last the week, "You don't want me to look like a captain! And Carolyn will realize what a mistake she made and give you your paycheck back and remember that we flew yesterday, and I won't ever fly again, and you did it on purpose!"

And suddenly he had to sit down, feeling perfectly miserable. Perhaps that third pill had been too much after all, even though everyone knew they set the dose so that it was safe for eight-two year old grannies or fifteen year old lightweights to take.

"Oh my, did I do all that?" His voice was light and slightly sarcastic, but there was a hurt quality to it as well that matched the look in his face when Martin finally turned his head to look at him. Remorse crashed through him heavily.

"No. No, of course not…you save me from a fall and let me stay and eat your food…I just…I…sorry."

"Well, if Sir will stop drowning in misery for one moment, I might have a solution for you."

Five minutes later, Martin was indeed wearing a perfectly pressed, freshly laundered shirt fit for a proper pilot. A proper pilot who was at least two sizes larger. As it was, he looked rather like a boy playing dress up in his father's clothes.

"Ah," Douglas said, surveying his handiwork, "Perhaps I underestimated exactly how much smaller than me you would be…I had hoped with the way it had shrunk in the wash…"

"It's…it's fine, Douglas," Martin answered, attempted to smile and failing completely. Perhaps tucked in, and with his jacket?

In the end, his desire to be on time won out over his desire to be impeccably dressed. If nothing else, Martin had achieved that morning a feat which Carolyn had been unable to perform in nearly the entire time they had known her. He got Douglas to arrive at work, not only on time, but five minutes early.

Author's Note: This chapter is deplorably late in coming, and I really am terribly sorry. Somehow, after knowing exactly how I wanted the story to begin, my muse completely abandoned me and I had no idea how I wanted it to continue. I'd like to say that muse is re-found and this story will continue on schedule…but I know myself and as much as I fully intend for that to happen, I'd rather not promise anything. I will simply promise it's not abandoned and the rest will come. And thank you, everyone who reviewed the first two chapters; I may rarely answer (I'm shy. It's weird, I know, especially since we're all practically anonymous, I just…get shy and awkward and over think things) but I really do appreciate them, and they can encourage me to remember a story I've…not so much abandoned as had on the back burner. So. I'll try to get the next bit out more quickly. And if you do notice any glaring mistakes or out-of-characternous (or bits you really liked) please let me know.


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